


On The Up and Up

by IamShadow21



Series: Indivisible By Two [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brothers, Disability, Disabled Character, Family, Fear of Flying, Fred Lives, Gen, Homophobic Language, POV George Weasley, Paralysis, Permanent Injury, Physical Disability, Quidditch, Sledging, tough love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-01
Updated: 2008-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 06:18:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamShadow21/pseuds/IamShadow21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whenever he goes up, George has trouble keeping things down. <i>Set six to eight months after Aspiring to Equilibrium.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Up and Up

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday Fred and George Weasley!

George lay flat on his back, eyes closed, sucking in deep gulps of air. There was a gust of a breeze, and the glare of the sun lessened.

“I’ve run out of moderately homophobic insults to yell at you,” a disappointed voice remonstrated. “Do you have any idea how much shorter the list becomes when the object of your denigration looks _exactly_ like yourself?”

“Go bugger yourself,” George panted.

“Well, naturally, that one’s _right_ out,” Fred agreed. “Who knows what the rest of the team would think if I yelled _that_. I think they’d start giving us a wider berth in the showers, for one.”

George rolled over on his side and curled up, trying desperately not to vomit.

“You really are a most fantastic shade of I’m-about-to-puke green,” Fred informed him, helpfully.

“Fuck off, or it’s going all over you,” George groaned.

Fred huffed, leaned down and pushed something none-too-gently between his twin’s lips. George recognised the familiar, chalky flavour of the remedy end of a Puking Pastille and chewed, rather than spitting it out. The gut-churning nausea abated.

“You know, if you didn’t fly like a geriatric witch, you wouldn’t get ill after five minutes in the air,” Fred commented.

George growled.

“It’s true!” Fred snapped. “If you picked up the pace a bit, the undulation of the carpet would even out. You wouldn’t be going up and down so much, and therefore, you wouldn’t be bringing up everything you ever ate after each practice manoeuvre.”

“Right,” George said, sitting upright on the carpet again and muttering “up”. Though Fred had taken to using his rug like he was born to it, they still unnerved George. Without something to grip onto, he felt like he was going to fly off the moment he took a corner at speed.

“You’re not going to fall off,” Fred reassured him, reading his mind effortlessly, as always. “That’s what the inbuilt Sticking Charm’s for.”

“I know.”

“If you don’t get the hang of it, I’m going to have to look at replacing you,” Fred said, his voice firm and unemotional. “It’s not personal, you know that. This charity match against the Auror Team could make the difference in gaining eligibility to enter the Amateur League.”

George nodded morosely.

Fred had been fighting hard to get the first carpet-flying Quidditch Team in Britain officially recognised by the Department of Magical Games and Sports. So far, they were only allowed to play demonstration games in the off-season against other amateur teams. This next match, however, was to raise money for St Mungo’s, and promised to attract a large crowd. Unfortunately, their regular Beater had been grounded, and Fred had received sanction that just this once, he was allowed to field an able-bodied replacement, since the Maulers didn’t yet have any reserves.

Fred’s eyes narrowed at George’s apparent defeatism. “And if you don’t stop being such a girl, I’m going to ask Ron to fill in for Robbie instead of you.”

“You _wouldn’t!_ ” George said, horrified.

Fred’s mouth quirked up into a crooked smile. “I bloody well _would_ ,” he confirmed, smugly. 

“But he’s a _rubbish_ Beater!” George protested.

“So are you when you’re doubled up, clutching your guts and moaning, rather than hitting Bludgers,” Fred pointed out. “Robbie’s going to be in St Mungo’s for another week, and won’t be fit to start training again until next month when he can sit comfortably. It’s Ron, or it’s you, and you’re not cutting it.”

“I’ll _always_ be better than Ron at Beater, and together, we’re a hundred times what you and he would be!” George insisted angrily.

“Our dynamic double act is useless if it takes you half an hour to get from one end of the pitch to the other, and our ickle brother dearest sits a carpet like a _natural_. If it wouldn’t get me locked up, I’d bust his kneecaps just so he could be on the team permanently.” Fred looked rather disconsolate at the legal repercussions of assaulting one’s brother with intent to cripple.

“I can do this,” George said.

“Oh, yeah?” Fred goaded. “Because your utter lack of prowess with rugs has convinced me once and for all what a complete homosexual you are.”

George bristled. “That so?”

“Absolutely. And the limp-wristed way you’re holding that bat makes me wonder if you’re going to squeal and drop it the first time you try and hit anything,” Fred sniggered.

George’s grip on his bat tightened. Fred skimmed neatly out of range, laughing.

“Come on, then! Catch me!” he shouted. “You going to let a cripple out-fly you, you big nancy?”

George was furious, but also oddly grateful that Fred knew better than anyone that when he was angry enough, his temper always overrode his common sense, and his fear. He gave chase.


End file.
